Sellers grinned. “Oil and grease off the garage floor. You’re a mess.”
Bertha looked around. She was in the maid’s bedroom, stretched out on the top of the bed. She struggled to a sitting position. For a moment the room spun around in a complete circle, then straightened itself.
“How do you feel?” Sellers asked.
“Like hell. How do I look?”
Sellers pointed to a bureau mirror. By turning her head, Bertha was able to catch a glimpse of herself. Her hair, sticky with oil, was plastered down on her head. There was a smear of grease along her right cheek. Her eyes were dead and dopey. “My God!” Bertha said.
“Exactly.”
Bertha faced him. “All right, what’s the score?”
Sellers became grave. “I’m sorry, Bertha, this is the end of the road as far as you’re concerned.”
“How come?”
“I knew you were holding out on me,” Sellers said. “I didn’t know just what or just how much. I couldn’t crack Belder; that meant I had to turn my attention to you. I thought I might have some difficulty giving you a third degree so I rang up the officer I’d left in charge, told him to promote a drink or two from you, tell you he was a habitual drunkard, get properly stewed, and see what you did. I made arrangements to have you followed when you left the office.”